


Shrouded Hope

by Perhaps7PercentStronger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fake Character Death, Multi, Past Character Death, Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:39:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perhaps7PercentStronger/pseuds/Perhaps7PercentStronger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson cannot accept that Sherlock has died and doesn't know how much longer he can live in London without his flatmate. [Not related to series 3]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angels Abandoning

John opened the window as he did every single morning, despite the frigid gales that swept in as they pleased and chilled his face. For several moments that seemed to stand independently of time, he remained stoic, staring with eyes that did not see into the depths of London. He used to love this city. But for some reason, colors of the sunrise had never seemed quite so bleak as they did today; the few who milled about on Baker Street below did not understand, did not see--but neither did they care. With a desolate sigh, John forced his eyes away from the world outside the flat for want of dealing first with what lay here on the inside.

For now, John was determined to stay here in his bedroom. He was unsure that he could handle the influx of emotions that would accompany venturing elsewhere in the flat and seeing all of the remnants, the wreckage, the ruins. Returning to his perch on the side of his bed, John worked up the courage to pull his cell phone from its charger, even as his hands shook. He scrolled through the short list of familiar names and chose one that came somewhere before the one he could not bring himself to erase, the one name he couldn’t say. Placing the phone against his ear, John closed his eyes. Each ring sounded more hollow than those before it, until finally a quiet voice answered.  
“Hello? John?”

“Molly...” he started, but choked up before any more words could pass his lips.

“Alright, John, I’m on my way.” Her voice was too gentle, as it had been ever since Thursday, nearly three weeks ago. He tried not to call, but this morning John needed someone. Being alone in the flat was almost worse than going into London.

The newspapers still came every day, but all that they did was stack up on the table in the living room, where John put them so that no one would ask questions. He knew that Mrs. Hudson would have done it for him, but John wasn’t going to put her through any more trouble than she’d had already.

For what seemed like days, John sat there on his bed, staring listlessly, eyes hollow, at the empty wall. All he could think was that there must have been a way to stop what had happened.

It was with a startled relief that he heard a light knock at the door, and John finally moved to let in Molly Hooper. He tried not to remember days he’d passed in the living room as he entered it, tried not to see all the traces that had been left behind, tried not to think of the name but it was all that filled his weary mind--Sherlock.

But John was able to make it to the door and, when he opened it, was embraced by a tired-looking Molly. For a minute, neither spoke a word but simply held the other. Perhaps it was a prayer, a parcel of Heaven; John could not continue with this kind of mental trauma, this emotional shattering, for the rest of his life. He thought that his days in the service would have, should have taught him something about how to keep a straight face and a clear mind, but that wasn’t the case. Back then, he’d lost some coworkers, some patients, the ability to walk straight. But now, he’d lost the best friend he’d ever had and that was too much.

“John?” whispered Molly, pulling back from him to see his face.

“I can’t do this, Molly,” he said bluntly.

Molly tried to conceal the drops forming in the corners of her eyes as she looked at his face, a hand gingerly resting against his cheek. “John, this can’t be easy. I know,” she said softly, “but you are a good man and you will brave this storm. Hell, it’s hard for all of us.”

He could only nod, staring at her through empty, hollow eyes.

Molly led him over to the couch and made him sit as her footsteps echoed toward the kitchen. John looked at the wall. It was still there, that bright yellow smiley-face, and now it was taunting him. It was smiling at him like the face of Jim Moriarty. There was little consolation in knowing that a bullet had ended his life--not only because it was him that had done it but because he had set up Sherlock's forced hand. There were no words for what John felt because of that; it was something greater than hatred and stronger than loathing that could never be erased. Watching as the world's slyest criminal was taken to the morgue did nothing but stir the anger in John's heart. Now, for three weeks, John had been alone. Alone like he had never been before. Alone unlike those days before he'd met Sherlock. He was _so_ alone now, because John had felt the company of someone he cared about and now it was gone. Had been stolen from him.

"Molly?" He called desperately, turning to see her in the kitchen. "Molly, I can't stay here anymore."

Her eyes met his with a tender understanding and she asked, "What do you mean, here? At the flat? You're always welcome to stay with me." But something told her it was more than that. There was a despair in the eyes of John Watson that told her it wasn't just the flat that he wanted to leave. After all of the time he'd spent with Sherlock, London surely held just as many memories for him as this flat. 

"I... I appreciate that, Molly, I do... I just... I just can't. It's not just the flat. It's... It's London."

"Oh, John," she said, making her way to him with a brisker pace than normal and sitting quietly beside him. 

"I have to leave London," he whispered.

Molly wrapped her arms about his shoulders but John did not move, still staring at the wall. "John?" she asked meekly.

Dryly, he answered, "Yes?"

"Please don't go. Come stay with me, just for a week. Then if you still want to go, I will see you off."

The words hung thick in the air, heavier than any fog John had ever seen. He did not know if he could rightly stay in London for that long. 

Because as long as he passed the buildings that formed the London skyline, as long as he saw the everyday people of London through the eyes of deduction, as long as he viewed the face of Jim Moriarty in every window, as long as he drank coffee with no suger, as long as he only heard Sherlock's deep voice--as long as he continued to live without his best friend, John could not really live. It didn't really even matter if he was in London or in Johannesburg, South Africa. He could be anywhere in the world and it wouldn't be far enough away from his memories. Right now, that bottle of buprenorphine he'd hidden under the skull last week was beginning to look a lot better.

He looked to Molly.

"Alright. One week."


	2. This Somber Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John cannot come to terms with Sherlock being gone, even with the aid of Molly and Anderson.

Anderson came by that night.

More accurately, Anderson interposed his way into Molly’s flat and stood paralyzed when he saw John sitting in the living room, drinking a brew that was an strong and odorous combination of tea and alcohol. For a second, Anderson could do nothing but gape in something akin to fear.

“John? You... Um... I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”

John knit his brow. The fact that he was here shouldn’t affect Anderson, he thought.

“Sorry. I should have told you,” said Molly quietly before turning back to the forensics man. “Anderson, Perhaps you’d like some tea?”

“Not for me,” he said. “But I’d take coffee if you have it.”

She nodded and obliged him, leaving the two men together to sit uncomfortably on opposite ends of Molly’s couch. For several minutes, John didn’t even acknowledge that the other man was there, only able to think of all the times Sherlock and Anderson had gone at each other. Perhaps John was biased in his view, but all he’d ever seen from the other man was a shared dislike of Sherlock’s “freakishness” with Sally Donovan. It certainly did not help that Sherlock had fallen to his death without making any attempt to quell the press’s allusions to his verity. 

Finally, though, Anderson spoke.

“I’m really sorry, John... He thought very highly of you.”

John turned his head. He did not say what he wanted to, that it was quite the opposite for Anderson, even if it was true. Instead he replied with empty words. 

“It’s good of you to say that.”

John still could not feel anything. His life was so desolate without Sherlock, and he wanted to feel something that justified everything Sherlock had ever said to him, done for him; the truth was, unfortunately, that no feeling could ever be that strong. He would die from it. And even if he wanted or needed to feel something, the ire and despair that filled him came in such strong doses that instead of experiencing the intensity of loneliness, he could feel absolutely nothing. That wasn’t what a friend should do. Especially if that friend was the only one someone had.

He had let Sherlock down. He should have been up there on that rooftop, ready to terminate the life of James Moriarty and save Sherlock from both the mastermind’s evil plan and the press’s hounding. All that ran through his mind was _I’ve let Sherlock down_ \--over and over in an incessant wave until the words were little more than sounds that echoed off the walls of his soul. He would never forgive himself for this. John Watson was many things, but a deserter he was not. Yet, a deserter he had become.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

Not even Anderson’s idiotic talking could distract John from what those words did to him.

He felt utterly, hopelessly lost.

“John? John, are you okay?” This time it was Molly Hooper’s voice, and it sounded frantic. John came to and looked at her with a confused face. 

“Fine,” he answered bluntly, staring through two holes. 

 Molly looked over to Anderson who looked worried himself, an expression that did not suit him. She let out a long sigh and proceeded to say, “Anderson, call Greg. I want to see if there’s anything he can recommend for John, anyone that could help.”

Normally, John would appreciate her genuine concern but right now it didn’t mean a thing. No one could help him. No one would understand what he had gone through. Because it was only now that John realized Sherlock was the only person that had ever really understood him and coming to such a revelation was humbling. It wasn’t just that his brilliant flatmate could figure out where he had been and with whom in less than five seconds. No, that wasn’t it. Something deeper had been there and John couldn’t decide what he had harbored for Sherlock; all he knew was that it was something he could never go back and tell him.

He suddenly wanted to go to Sherlock’s grave.

Taking the fresh cup of tea that Molly handed him as her eyes watering at something--maybe the sight of his pathetic self--John said, “No, Anderson. Don’t call.”

Both Molly and Anderson looked at him in inquiry.

“Why not?” asked the latter.

John sighed. He looked at Molly. She was the only one he could look in the eye and talk to right now; Anderson always seemed to put him off as he’d always done to Sherlock. “Molly, you know just as well as Anderson that no one could do anything for me. I’ve seen my therapist. Four times. I’ve gotten drunk twice. I just... I just need to go see Sherlock again.”

Molly’s eyes widened and she was quick to answer. “No, John. No. Not today. You’re taking this all too hard. You know what--” she said, and she was off to the kitchen to fetch something.

John looked over at Anderson.

“She’s right, you know. Get some rest. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

Anderson got up and with a quick pat on John’s shoulder, he nodded a goodbye to Molly and was out the door into the bleak London night. When Molly came back, she found John still staring at the door.

“Alright, John. Drink this. No, don’t argue. Just drink it.”

She helped to force some bitter tasting liquid down his throat and John coughed. 

“What was that?”

“Don’t you mind it.”

“I’m a doctor. Tell me,” he half-pleaded, unable to make the words sound strong.

“So am I. No,” answered Molly gently. “Lay down, John. I’ll go get you a blanket. You need sleep and I’ll make you get it if I have to force you... I couldn’t bear to see _you_ in my morgue, t--Oh. I’m... um. I’m sorry. Go to sleep, John.”

He hadn’t even been listening to her, because a more familiar voice had found its way into his mind again. It simply wouldn’t go away. The memory of the world’s only consulting detective haunted John like a vengeful spirit, even as he knew that Sherlock would never wish him harm. Would he? Because for three weeks, it seemed like harm was all that he’d brought John. It had caused him to choke up with numbness at the funeral and beg the dead to walk again. Nothing was real anymore, not to John. Not without Sherlock. An empty flat was no home and crimes were no longer things of pure interest. Instead, they were institutions of the purest evil, forged in the fires of Perdition and brought to the surface by men like Jim Moriarty who simply could not resist the devil’s offers. They were the reason that good men died, the reason that Sherlock’s hand had been forced and he had jumped. And to Hell with the idea that Sherlock wasn’t a hero, because Moriarty was the archetypal Satan.

Death wasn’t enough of a punishment for some. 

And death wasn’t a worthy escape for others.

Sherlock cared, even if he didn’t admit it. That was something John would always believe because he simply could not deny it. That, along with the notion that Sherlock had been one hundred percent genuine. No one would tell him otherwise.

And as John began to feel the weight lifting off his body, he started to feel something. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and as trancelike slumber set in, something happened that was far too good to be true--yet far too real to deny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be coming soon, all about John's epic dream! Much love!


	3. Reinstated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an unsettling dream.

Sherlock was there.

There was something about his presence that felt so comfortable to John. Sherlock, in the flesh. Sherlock, his best friend.

He was there, walking quickly toward his flatmate, with that crazed look in his eye that he only got when the next big case came in and the great deductive wheels began to turn behind his mysterious eyes. His collar was upturned and his scarf was blowing back into his body as he hurried toward John, whose sense of observation had never been so acute. Never had a more glorious sight come before John's eyes and he didn't even care how Sherlock had come to be here—he was simply glad that he was. John sighed, smiling, feeling a true physical weight come off his shoulders like in novels. And then there was nothing there to stop him from running to Sherlock—nothing except the pure shock and happiness.

They were in a room, pure white. The floor, the ceiling, the walls, all white. Nothing was stained and nothing was of any color except for the two of them. It was a brilliant contrast but John didn’t much care about looking at anything but his miraculously resurrected best friend.

"Sherlock," John whispered, his mouth dry with amazement.

"Don't speak, John," he said softly as he reached his flatmate's side. An uncharacteristically gentle hand rested on John's shoulder but Watson did not move.

"John, I'm so sorry," said Sherlock, at a level so quiet it almost did not pass his lips. "You're my only friend and I believe I've done the wrong thing." These words, vulnerably unlike the deductive genius, caused John a moment's pause, and he furrowed his brow.

"No, Sherlock," he said. "It's just... Just... Well, Sherlock, you're alive." His eyes pleaded for explanation but John knew that it didn't really even matter, and moreover that Sherlock probably wouldn't offer much.

"I was only trying to save you," said Sherlock.

"I know," John answered quietly, no beat between his and Sherlock's words.  He did not have to say that.

And suddenly the room shifted. The ceiling dissipated slowly into a dreary and clouded nighttime sky and the walls morphed to become the outsides of buildings. Under their feet, the white carpet turned without warning to wet black asphalt.

"Sherlock?" asked John.

But he didn't even seem to notice the change in their surroundings, which was odd for anyone but especially him. He simply remained where he was, facing John and with the hand still on his shoulder. But his eyes were distant. They were not focused on John but elsewhere, perhaps back in the recesses of his mind palace, conjuring up something to say or trying to remember another time. There was a placidness in Sherlock's gaze. And it was somehow so serene where it sat upon the detective's face that John did not speak for several minutes, until it was Sherlock's voice that broke the silence.

“John, I… There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Well… Tell me.”

From Sherlock’s expression, John could tell that this was no light matter. It took a moment for him to get the words to his tongue, but eventually Sherlock confessed, “John, I could never tell you how right you were.”

“Right? Sherlock, about what?”

He sighed.

“I never lied. I’ve always been brilliant. And I fooled the world’s greatest criminal—not to mention the world. You—you never doubted me, John. And I’m sorry my death had to affect you.”

John had no words. All he could do was shake his head. He could understand now, when his flatmate was finally back at his side… it had never occurred to him that Sherlock felt sympathy for what he’d done, even this little bit. He didn’t even know that such a man could feel… sorry.

“Jim is dead now, John.”

“So were you.”

Sherlock looked down. “I know, John. I know. John, I… I’ve seen your grief and I know that what I did was… not good.”

There was a suspended moment of silence that hung between them and John didn’t know what he was going to say to that. Did he want Sherlock to feel guilty over this? After all, he was back now—all that Watson had wanted for a month—and  John didn’t know if forgiveness wasn’t the perfect thing to do here.

“A bit not good, yeah,” answered John lowly, a smile appearing at the corners of his lips.

Sherlock returned the expression.

Again the scene shifted around them but John didn’t care enough to notice. They were in the flat together and it felt so… normal.

“Well, then,” said Sherlock, removing his scarf and coat and laying them over the back of the couch, “I need a new case, Dr. Watson.”

With that, he laid down on the sofa, his feet hanging over the armrest. John turned to retrieve his laptop and look up open cases, but when he turned around, Sherlock had vanished and John was once again all alone. He stood for a moment in disbelief as the room turned to black around him, the familiar sensation of forsaken dread already beginning to creep back as the realization that Sherlock had only been an apparition began to settle in. Surely he was dreaming. And it was this disquieting revelation that woke John in a frenzy.

He looked around in an attempt to gather himself and, upon realizing he was asleep on Molly’s couch as the midday sun streamed through the thin curtains, shifted to sit up. He had been asleep for a long time and all he remembered from that time was Sherlock. John didn’t believe in the supernatural, particularly after his time in Baskerville, but something about what he had experienced in his dream struck him as too real to be mere coincidence. There had been more than his conscience, more than the mixture of pain and damage in his heart more than sorrow at work there. It felt like—dare he think such a thing?—magic.

Logic was at this point well beyond him; all he wanted was for that dream to be real and for the words Sherlock had spoken to emboss themselves upon his heart. He missed Sherlock so much.

Likely having sensed his stirring, Molly called from the kitchen, “Tea, John? It’s one-thirty already.”

He didn’t have the inspiration to answer.


	4. The Emissary's Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives word from someone he did not expect to contact him.

John had slept for over fourteen hours and he was glad to be handed a cup of fresh tea by Molly, whose face still showed signs of utter distress as he was certain did his own. The dream he'd experienced had been surreal, but it wasn't life and John hated to do so but he had to accept it. Sherlock was gone, and no amount of dreaming was going to bring him back. John had done his part. He was mourning, and he had gone to Sherlock's grave to beg for a second chance; apparently this was to no avail and if Sherlock was alive, he'd done a damn good job being dead. John was losing any hope that had been left in his soul. That dream had simply pulled it all out of him. The numbness was setting in again and John wondered what he had done to deserve it.

Molly sat down beside him and turned on the television, flipping through channels until she came to the news. The weather report was blaring in the background as she turned to him and asked, "John, are you feeling better? Physically, at least?"

He nodded. "A bit."

"That's good. Even in hard times you need to be healthy. You should know that. I had this problem, too, when my father died, but..." she trailed off in the middle of her sentence, realizing that she wasn't saying things that would help him.

"Thank you, Molly," he said simply. She was trying.

Molly sighed in half-frustration and turned to watch the television. Suddenly, John's phone sounded and she glanced sideways at him. "Want me to turn it off?"

"No," said John, and he stood to go get the device. Bringing it back into the living room and sitting on the couch, he looked down at a number he did not recognize. Not one of his contacts. Perhaps a wrong number, but he'd look.  _1 New Text Message_. John sighed and Molly began to develop that flustered look again. He opened the phone and read the message sent from the strange number.

**No one should be alone.**

**Let's have dinner.**

John stared at the text for a full three minutes before he could process what had just happened. She was... supposed to be dead. Just like Sherlock. Killed by terrorists, even though he was supposed to have told Sherlock that she was in America.

What did she want from him? Where was she? Did Mycroft know? Did Sherlock, before he'd... died?

John didn't know if he should answer, and moreover Molly was giving him a very odd, concerned look.

"Who is it?"

John took a breath. "Irene Adler."

Molly's eyes grew. "No, John, it couldn't be... She's..."

"Dead? I thought so too." His eyes sunk and his head throbbed but John knew what he needed to do. Averting his eyes back to the phone, he typed a message back, intuition telling him that this was no imposter. It had to be her...  _The Woman_. 

**Does tonight work?**

**  
**He sent the message and closed his phone. At least she might have answers. In a matter of minutes, which always seemed to tick by like days now, she had answered him.

**Sounds lovely.**

**I'll pick you up.**

**  
**John wondered how she knew where he was but didn't question it. To have his mind off Sherlock, occupied by just about anything else, was a sort of relief and he would take it. Molly's flat simply wasn't cutting it. Irene was someone Sherlock had admired, albeit never aloud, and John thought maybe he'd take comfort for once in her antics. Tonight. She'd finally get the dinner she'd always wanted.

 

* * *

 

When Molly's antique little clock struck seven-fifteen, there was a knock at the door.

 "Are you ready, John? Are you sure you want to go?" asked Molly as she went to answer her caller. John had told her, of course, but as much as he kept saying he wanted or needed to go with Irene, Molly kept up her concern.

"Yes, Molly, I'm sure." He forced a difficult smile to her and stood to greet the visitor.

Irene looked nothing like she had before. Her eyes still glowed that haunting shade of blue and her hair was still dark, but she had cut most of it off and looked with her new cut like another woman. Her makeup was not so regal now and her clothes were plain. He'd never seen her in blue jeans until now, and to add to that she was wearing a loose gray sweater. Dangling blue earrings tried to keep her from compromising all of her looks but John could tell just by this first glance that she didn't want to be recognized or noticed any longer. Why, then? Moriarty was dead. Mycroft still seemed to think her gone. She had no one to worry about... right?

"Good evening, John," she said smoothly, offering him a pitiful smile.

"Hello, Irene. I... didn't expect to see you again."

"Nor did I," she replied. "Don't call me Irene anymore. I can't be who I once was."

The words hung in midair for a moment, and John finally asked, "What should I call you, then?"

"Leta," she answered promptly. 

 _Leta..._ thought John, trying to remember the implications. Irene was a brilliant woman, despite her previous business (though surely it brought in a good sum) and she had to have something to mean by choosing that name. Just as he realized he was thinking like Sherlock, John was interrupted by her voice, more caring and gentle than usual.

"Secret, John. It means 'secret.'"

He nodded.

"To dinner, then?"

"That would be nice, yeah," he answered. Irene smiled to Molly and beckoned for John to follow her.

There was a cab awaiting them both and after a short and particularly quiet ride in the dark London evening, they had arrived at the restaurant that Irene had chosen. They were immediately seated--she certainly still had connections--and served from a bottle of white wine. John nodded his thanks to the server and stared, devoid of any real expression, at Irene.

"So tell me, John," she began, "have you been staying with Molly long?"

"Since yesterday," he said dryly. "I mean... I know what that must look like but I..."

"No, no, I understand. You're not the only one who's lost Sherlock." The look in her eyes seemed to be a muted fierceness and it puzzled Watson.

"So how are you... here?"

Irene smiled. "Alive, you mean? Let's just say that I had a run-in with a terrorist who had strangely familiar eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass." She took a drink of her wine, looking down demurely. 

John frowned. "Sherlock saved you? But he--he wasn't supposed to know about that."

"I'm not convinced there's many things he doesn't know."

Having to agree, John nodded. He glanced at the menu but he simply wasn't hungry. It had been a day since he'd eaten anything vaguely filling and he remembered Molly's warning about keeping his health in check, but he could not bring himself to indulge while in the state he was in. Deciding he'd just take some soup, a light fare, he looked back to the woman who was supposed to be dead. Should that give him hope? He figured that if he allowed her resurrection to give him hope for Sherlock's own, he would be sorely disappointed after being lulled into a sense of false happiness. He sighed. "Ir--Leta, when did you hear? About Sherlock, I mean."

"I've only been back in London a week and a half; as soon as I was back there was a rather queer sense of emptiness--I saw a story on the news about some low-level sociopathic serial killer and wondered why Sherlock wasn't on the case. It was then that I read those little stories that run across the bottom. Something like,  _London's greatest detective continues to be mourned as crime rates increase._ I thought that surely it couldn't be true, but... Well, it is."

John scratched the side of his head. He didn't want to remember Sherlock.

"Moriarty's people call it the Reichenbach Fall."

"But Jim is dead too," said Irene calmly and it was just then that John noted she'd not had a phone on her all evening.

"At least that came of it. I take it you do not associate yourself with him any more."

"That was over the minute Irene Adler died," she answered gravely. "I cannot be who I was, John. Neither can you. That's why I took you for dinner. You need to let go and move on, John Watson."

John took in a breath. Let it out. Another. In, out. In, out. "This is so much to handle," he said, almost inaudibly.

"You're going to be alright, John," answered Irene gently. "You always are."

"I guess, yeah."

Dinner was the longest, most painful thing John had ever sat through because she didn't seem to understand what he was feeling. He was glad to simply return to Molly's flat, and just before she had closed the door, Irene had told him, "We must got out again sometime. Smile some, John. The long face doesn't suit you."

He didn't think they should do dinner again.


	5. Exodus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides that London doesn't hold any more hope for him.

When the gentle morning sun awoke John to the morning, he was struck with a feeling he considered inconsistent with his heart. He wanted to hope, to keep near him the idea that his best friend could still be alive. But it was so hard, so very agonizingly hard. If Irene wasn't dead--as even Mycroft and therefore the British government thought--who was to say that Sherlock, brilliant, mad Sherlock, wasn't also alive?

The one thing that didn't make sense about that, though, was that surely, _surely,_  he would have made himself known to John--if only to John. That was the part his heart had trouble accepting.

John rose from Molly's couch and went to fix himself some morning tea. As he set the kettle on the stove, Molly walked in, dressed still in her nightclothes, and looked with startled curiosity at him. 

"You're up early," she statead.

He nodded and looked away.

"What's wrong, John?"

"Molly," he answered softly, sighing and hiding his face from her because he still wasn't sure this was the right choice, "I'm leaving London today."

She swallowed and he could see the tears already welling in the corners of her eyes. He hated to make Molly cry, really, but this wasn't for her. It was for him, because it was impossible to be here without Sherlock. For weeks now he had tried, and the trial was now expiring. John needed his flatmate if he was going to stay, and since Sherlock was either really dead or otherwise not caring enough to tell John where he was, his only choice was to leave. It was all rational, in his mind, though John was certain others would question it. He'd gotten through a war and come back to find that there was more to life than psychosomatic limps and hardened poise. He had learned adventure... and now, John thirsted for it. He couldn't stay in a place with so many good memories because they had been cut short, had been stopped prematurely. That was why he needed to leave.

"Alright, John," Molly answered softly, moving nearer to him so that she could embrace him.

"I can't stay without him."

"I know. Maybe one day you'll decide to come back. And I'll always welcome you," she said, tears falling noiselessly from her eyes to the floor, and John looked away again. He didn't like to hurt anyone.

"Thank you. You've been good to me."

Molly nodded.

"When are you going? Where?"

John met her gaze again, shaking his head. "Soon, whenever I get my things together. But I have no idea where I'm going, to be honest."

"North is an option," she said. "To Liverpool or to Manchester, maybe. Or you could go south to Southampton or to Paris... east to Canterbury or maybe even Amsterdam. Even... even west, if you wanted. To America."

"Not to America," John answered coldly. "That's cliche, and I don't think I could like it there. Honestly, Molly, I think I'm going to take a plane to Paris and then see where else I can go."

"So you are leaving England?"

"I have to, Molly. The people, the manners, the signs... I know too much about them. I can't look at someone without thinking about what their clothes imply and where their accent comes from in the country. I can't walk the streets without seeing Sherlock's brilliant mind finding the best route. I... can't do it. I have to leave. The confines of the British isles are too close to home for me, and I will always see 221B on the front of every door. At least elsewhere there can be languages I don't understand and people who I can't observe."

Molly was going to say something about everyone being somewhat observable but she refrained. It would only hurt John more. Instead, she said, "Just don't lose my number. I will always be here for you."

John smiled and picked up the handle of the boiling kettle.

"Tea?"

"That would be lovely."

"One cup and then I'm going to pack up," he said.

Over their morning tea, Molly and John sat in the living room and watched the news, each trying to add humorous bits when they could but failing when the space between them became too far and too serious. There was just no place for humor at a time like this, and lightheartedness almost seemed sarceligeous to John in a world without Sherlock. The news was a continous stream of crime reports and all that the army doctor could think about was how few there would have been if this had happened just a few weeks ago. Sherlock was a vigilante in his own way, even though he had his connections with the law. That was what kept him borderline legal; otherwise he would not have been a consulting detective.

Finally, John had enough and he had to bid Molly goodbye. He watched her struggle to hold back her tears as he kissed her cheek and drag his single suitcase out the door, and felt guilty because he knew that as soon as he was far enough away she would break down. He would text her later to check in, but for now, John was going to take whatever form of transportation he could to get out of London.

Sure enough, a cab ride, four hours of airport waiting, and a plane flight later, John was in Paris, France. From here, he would find somewhere to go and spend time thinking about anything but Sherlock. If that man filled his thoughts like he had for the past two weeks, John was doomed, but now he was determined to escape that. He had to be his own person. If nothing else, John Watson needed to find out who he really was before he ever tried to find solace in someone else. He had to find his own place in the world. It was time.

Looking around, John decided to get a cup of tea and then look up flights.

With the Earl Grey in his hand, sitting on a bench in the middle of the airport and trying desperately to remember some French, John looked over the list of destinations. Amsterdam was a choice, though he would rather be somewhere that he could survive on minimal language learning. In fact... John could stay here. In Paris. With the number of American and British tourists that came here, plenty of people spoke English and he knew enough French to get around. With the first hints of a smile, John dropped the paper he'd been holding, turned away from the screen, and stood up. He walked the long corridor to the outside, and decided he would take a cab to somewhere that could help him find a flat. Perhaps the embassy could help him.

Finally, John was almost free from Sherlock's grip.


End file.
